


Trinity Man

by dolanesque



Category: Interpol
Genre: Alternate Universe, At least no one dies, Bad Puns, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Friends to Enemies, No Smut, Sarcasm, Sassy, Sorry Not Sorry, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolanesque/pseuds/dolanesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul Banks had thought he found the solution to his boredom with life: creating more lives. He would live as the preppy, intellectual, theoretical gangster Paul Banks; the reckless, charismatic, irresistible Julian Plenti; and the sleek, heroic, magnetic Mr. Blanks. Each man had his own job, friends, and romantic liaisons, all of which seemed separate at first. But can one man truly divide himself into three?</p><p> </p><p>Basically, a bunch of tumblr memes and inside jokes combined into one poorly written fic. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Always Sunny in the Land of Plenti

**Author's Note:**

> So one day, I stumbled upon this [ tumblr post ](http://interpolvevo.tumblr.com/post/101645316065/fuck-marry-kill-paul-banks-julian-plenti-or-paul), and I knew I had to write something from it. I changed the details a bit, but the premise is basically the same. Interpol needs more fics, and I enjoy making fun of Paul Banks.  
> Side note: I absolutely adore each member of Interpol. But they're such dorks, and I really need to make fun of this. I promise that every joke and sarcastic remark comes from a place of love (and bitchiness).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet California's Finest-- Julian Plenti.

Most models were good-looking, but he was more than a pretty face. _FLASH._  
He had swagger, and guile, and a rugged sort of grace. _FLASH. FLASH._  
Yet, he could never be happy with any one face that he chose. _FLASH._  
So all he could do was keep changing his pose.  
_FLASH. FLASH. FLASH._  
"And that's a wrap. Good shoot, everyone!"  
  
  
Bright lights, loud cameras, nice clothes: it was just an average day for playboy model Julian Plenti.  
  
The California sun was being generous that day. It bathed the beach photo shoot with waves of heat while a roasting wind blew up hurricanes of sand. The radiance made the colors of the beach more intense, turning the water into a lucid cobalt, the tree palms into a glimmering emerald, and the tides' froth into a blinding white. This summery weather would've irritated the average person, but not the almighty beach babe Julian Plenti. He was loving it. He stood bewildered as members of the crew were hurriedly packing away equipment just to escape away to the air-conditioned safety of their lunch breaks. Weaklings.

As the wind began to die down, Julian left the set and followed the other few male models into the changing tent to undress, but he quickly moved out to enjoy the rest of the beach. He left the tent dressed in his most logical hot weather attire: a striped sweater, Nike sandals, and Adidas sweatpants. He then sauntered down closer to the sun-kissed shore, ignoring the few beads of sweat already crystallizing beneath his clothes. The shoot had originally been a couple of yards from where the tide touched the beach, but the model was soon pulling his feet out of his shoes and planting himself in the moistened sand. Its warmth emanated up from his ankles as he closed his eyes, letting the sun's sensual rays fall upon his glorious, celestial body. He was like a statue hardening in the sun. A human work of art. But who was he to keep all of this magnificence to himself? He slyly slit one eye open and scanned the beach for any hunnies in the vicinity. He was first met with an empty expanse of golden sand and sporadic trees, but there were soon two specks in the distance. And as they moved closer and their features became more distinct, Julian realized they were two oases in his coital desert. Yes, they were two tanned, half-naked harlots making their toward him. But more importantly, they had Julian's favorite fruit: melons.

He quickly shut his eye, acting oblivious to the advancing girls' presence. Females always preferred their prey to be unsuspecting and off-guard. Julian learned from experience that a man aware of flirtation would intimidate a woman and send her scampering off. She preferred him weak and unprepared; vulnerable and blind; defenseless and exposed. Wasn't it easier for a lioness to strike a gazelle when the gazelle was looking in the opposite direction?   
  
"Hey, you're a model, aren't you," a honeyed voice asked, interrupting Plenti's lengthening metaphor.  
  
The playboy lazily opened his eyes near the direction of the voice, purposely staring in the sunlight so that the blue of his irises would glitter.  
  
"I'm a model of sorts," he crooned, dropping the pitch of his voice to more manly depths. "But I do often take off expensive clothes in front of cameras. Y'know, in my free time." A smirk slid across his face.  
  
"Right…" replied the one stretching out a yellow swim top. "Well, we did see your photo shoot up there." She might've been tilting her head in the direction of the shoot, but Julian wasn't looking at her face, so he wasn't sure. The only thing in his view was their swim tops, but breasts didn't seem to correspond with the movement of the heads.  
  
"Yeah? How was I," he asked, just for the sake of continuing the conversation. The blue top replied, but Julian wasn't listening. Their responses didn't actually matter to him, a soon-to-be world renowned supermodel. He knew he had the most. Seven years had already passed since he had started his modeling career. Adidas was just making him sweat a little, wait a while. They were creating suspense. That was why he practically lived in his multitude of multiple pairs of Adidas sweatpants, shoes, and tracksuits. To model for Adidas, one had to live Adidas. Wear Adidas. Breath Adidas. _Become Adidas._  
  
"We should meet for a few beers later this week. Have a menage` Artois," he purred, decidedly rejoining the conversation. Sure, he had just unashamedly flipped off the French language with his ingenious pun, but it was for the sake of poontang. So it was excusable.  
  
"Ok. How about this Thursday at the Penguin Bar? 11 o'clock? Maybe you can teach us a little French, too," the blue topped one murmured, slathering her voice with a seductive tone.  
  
"Aiiiightt, sounds fye."  
  
The bikini tops seemed to look at the playboy with strained smiles, as if his super cool outburst made them uncomfortable. Nah, that couldn't have been it.   
  
"So, uh, Thursday," yellow top awkwardly chirped, forcing an obviously not uncomfortable smile. "We'll see you then." As the two swimsuits turned around and walked back down the shore, Julian shifted his eyes in time to see their asses wink back at him.  
Team Plenti had made another score, one well overdue. As tantalizing as he was, the many time-consuming ventures of his jobs had prevented him from having a good lay for nearly 2 weeks. Even his right hand had been too busy for him. The possibility of an actual bonk made his entire body twitch. Even his moles jumped with excitement.  
Finally tired of the sun's relentless attention, Plenti pulled his feet from the wet sand and slipped them back into his discarded sandals. As he walked away from the shore, he pulled out his phone and tapped in the number he knew by heart.  
  
"How far away are you? Shit, you're here already? Alright. I'll see you in five."  
•••  
Julian had always insisted against hiring a bodyguard. The model believed he was intimidatingly fit enough to protect himself and didn't want some stranger following him around (not a guy, at least). But since he was often too drunk to care for himself and he liked the idea of bossing some big dude around, he eventually chose one man for the job: Sam. Julian didn't trust anyone as much as he did Sam. The two had been friends for what had seemed to be eternities, even though Sam might've lived a few more eternities than did Julian. The bodyguard knew every facet of the playboy's personality, and he always understood him. It was as if they had been friends in past lives, both suffering the banality of each human life and always managing to find each other again. And, truth be told, Julian had sort of a crush on Sam. A friend crush. The bodyguard was just a great cook, and he had great tastes in music, and he always wore the coolest jackets that unfortunately hid his sculpted arms, and he had smooth hair and olive skin and warm green eyes... but, uh, no, yeah, it was just a friend crush.

Julian had been ruminating about his history with Sam while staring at the man from the backseat. Sam was hired only as the bodyguard, but he felt driving the playboy around was a part of keeping him safe. He practically demanded to be the chauffeur, and Julian could never say no to Sam. No one could. The intimidating sincerity of his green eyes made it difficult to deny him anything, and it gleamed from the reflection in the rearview mirror that Plenti found himself peering into. The bodyguard had always arrived early to pick up the model, and today had been no different. Julian had climbed into his parked, super discrete black and red BMW, with sand falling from his pants and mud tracking from the bottoms of his shoes.  
  
"Hey, did I leave any extra--"  
  
Sam reached in the passenger seat and handed a plastic-wrapped, dry-cleaned suit to Julian before the model could finish his sentence.  
  
"Thanks, man. I knew I left this in here." Suit in hand, he plopped down on the seat and started the process of removing his disheveled clothes.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, knowing well that he was the one who left the clothes in the car. He always kept a spare outfit there, knowing the model would always find a way to make himself dirty. He literally put the clothes on Julian's back.  
  
"I remembered to bring our entertainment, too," half-dressed Plenti chimed, grabbing a cluster of scribbled-on DVDs from the back pocket of the passenger seat and throwing them in Sam's lap.  
  
The bodyguard flipped through the discs, discerning the titles _Ich Liebe Dicks_ and _Twin Cheeks_. "Yeah, you can keep these to yourself," Sam muttered, tucking the DVDs aside and glancing up into the rearview mirror to see his friend already decked out in his suit. It was unnerving how quickly the model could dress and undress. Maybe he learned it from his modeling jobs. Or from more personal experience. Either way, Sam tried to erase the worrying thought from his mind.  
  
"That's the good stuff, man. It's raw. It's real. Unadulterated art. Sex," the model retorted.  
  
"Artsex?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You said artsex. What the hell is artsex?" the bodyguard asked.  
  
"Ugh, no. I didn't make art and sex into one. That's not even a real word. Y'know, I hate it when people put words together that don't make sense. If it doesn't make logical sense in a sentence, then don't say it. People who do that are such pricks," Julian rambled, the intense passion of his lingual argument causing him to shudder. "Not that you're a prick, Sam. But anyways, you can't combine them into one word. They're one in the same. Sex is art."  
  
"Really? I've always seen it as a sport. Like wrestling, for obvious reasons. Or a race since you're usually trying to get to the finish line first."  
  
"Nah, it's art, man. I can base it on my own personal experience. I like watching people play music. I like watching people have sex, too. And I spend too much money on both," the model casually divulged.  
  
"Words of a true pervert."  
  
"How? I'm not in the peeping tom business. I'm a decent guy, I pay for my music, and I _pay_ to watch sex."  
  
So it was time to end that conversation. Sam didn't reply, couldn't reply, so he simply put the car in drive and started their commute. But with the prior conversation in mind, Sam had quickly regretted his previous thought about his friend. Sure, Julian was promiscuous and irresponsible, but he seemed intelligent enough to care for himself. He had grown to be much more thoughtful than the boyish delinquent Sam had met nearly 10 years before.

Sometimes Julian was an oversexed crackpot, but he could occasionally transform into a literary buff who could withhold intellectual conversations. He could even remember things for himself, every now and then. There was just always so much more to him. Julian Plenti was always anything but two-dimensional.  
•  
The sudden deceleration of the car quickly jolted Julian from his retrospection. Sam was pulling the car into a parking spot as the enormity of the airport loomed over them.  
The model darted his eyes from the rearview mirror before Sam could meet them, his gaze then averted to his sandals.  
  
"Hey, where did I leave the sh-"  
  
Sam bent over into the passenger seat again to pull out a pair of shiny, black oxfords stuffed with socks, throwing them in the backseat to land perfectly in Julian's lap.  
  
"After all these years, I'm surprised Mr. Blanks still doesn't have his shit together," Sam snickered, unlocking the doors and climbing out of the car before Julian could reply. And though the bodyguard's statement was a lighthearted quip, it still managed to unsettle Julian. As the model slipped into his oxfords and flattened his suit down, a black shape caught his eye from the hook above the passenger side door. He quickly grabbed the shape before opening his door and clambering outside the car. He then met Sam at the trunk of the car to pull out their suitcases: all black, one for each of them.  
Sam slammed the trunk shut and locked the car, he and Plenti lugging their heavy baggage behind them.

The pair promptly began their trek to the airport's entrance, an hour remaining before their flight's departure. Time seemed to slow with every step they took, the surrounding actions suddenly occurring in slow motion. Perspiration descended along their bodies beneath the black thickness of their suits. Plenti's shaggy hair further disheveled as the wind swept individual strands, leaving him to look like an overdressed Pomeranian. The reverberating heat fogged up Sam's glasses, turning the bodyguard into a visually impaired toad.

The two had only walked a few yards when the toad tripped over some nonexistent obstacle on the ground, causing the collie to attempt to suffocate an assault of super masculine giggles. After halting to composing himself, the toad took off his glasses and cleaned them on his jacket, sending an intimidating glare to his dog companion. The shaggy canine fell silent and continued to walk with the amphibian, the ghosts of his giggles still haunting the air between them. Yes, the two were definitely an interesting pair: friends from two different species.

They were a few feet from the entrance when everything suddenly moved back to its normal pace. Time had caught up to them again.

It was time to go to another city. A new place. A new face.

Plenti then crowned himself with the black Fedora in his hand and strode forward, the same California sun that warmed him on the beach now setting behind his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me cringe a little :( The rest of the fic is better written, I promise.


	2. A Square Peg in a Round Mole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now to meet the indubitably swank Mr. Blanks.

The following Tuesday morning, a powder blue sky loomed over New York City. The streets were fraught with bumbling people, serenaded by the normal urban buzz.

Criminals and lowlifes still ran rampant through the city, but there was little to fear now that its two heroes had returned.

They were residing in a meek, affluent neighborhood, where their swank villa blended in with the similar-looking houses that neighbored them. The community was resonating with a quiet suburban murmur, which was immediately interrupted by a ringing telephone.

"Blanks! Mr. Blanks? Are you there?"

"No, Commissioner, this is Fog."

"Well, where have you two been the past week?!"

Fog wasn't surprised by the commissioner's irate tone. He and Blanks had grown used to it over the years. This happened every time they departed from their roles as heroes to live as normal people: they'd be gone for a week or two, later return to a more crime-ridden New York and an outraged police commissioner. As if the police force was incapable of handling the city while the heroes were away.

"We were…ah… away on extraneous business. Blanks and I just flew back in last night. What seems to be the problem?"

"Early this morning, the Melora cosmetics store on Brandway was robbed and vandalized. Merchandise is missing and the interior has been defaced," the commissioner exclaimed, the urgency in his voice ascending. "But what worries me the most is the person who did this."

"Well, who was it?"

"I-I'm not entirely sure. But I think Blanks may know who did it--"

Fog immediately threw the phone receiver down and jogged out of the office, racing down the stairs to find his partner.

Despite his frustration, Fog always felt guilty when he and Blanks tended to their other lives because they often missed out on fighting city crime. Being Mr. Blanks and Fog would always be time-consuming work. So he always tried to ease the guilt by responding to the commissioner as soon as possible, even if it meant running through the villa/headquarters like an erratic toad.

"Blanks, there was robbery last night," Fog bellowed, erupting into the living room to find his partner lounging in his recreational black tuxedo.

"Where was it," Blanks responded, turning toward Fog while remaining on the sectional couch. Alarm existed in his voice and across his eyes, but Blanks was still less excited than Fog was.

"The Melora on Brandway."

"Do they know the criminal culprit who did it?"

"Holy Tweezers! That's the thing, Blanks. The Commissioner just said that you'd know who did it," Fog yipped, the excitement in his voice increasing.

Blanks' face contorted into an expression of confusion and pensiveness.

What villain from his past would strike at a _beauty_ store? Could it have been the evil Jules Queso-blanco? Blanks had known him to wear eyeliner before, and the guy could've really used some of the hair products on his unruly mane.

What about criminal gang the Attic Monkeys? They probably robbed the store just to buy the gang's leader some hair grease.

These were justifiable guesses, but Blanks would have to see the crime scene to figure out the culprit.

"Go start the Molemobile. I need to change out of these rags and put on my costume."

Blanks nimbly hopped from the couch and landed gently on the carpet, gallantly pausing for a few seconds before trotting upstairs to the costume closet in his office.

He disappeared into the closet and emerged from there in mere seconds, fully dressed in his special, signature black suit, strapped with his utility belt across his waist, and accessorized by a black Domino mask around his eyes. But alas, Blanks still wasn't finished preparing.

He excitedly leaped to his mirror vanity, grabbing a small tub on the table to begin his favorite routine. He unopened it and plunged his hand into the gelatinous substance inside, a rush of ecstasy running through his veins as he smeared it onto his hair. There simply was nothing Mr. Blanks loved more than the daily morning squelch of slathering on his hair grease. He could feel each strand of his hair suffocating and fainting to its position on his head; there wasn't a feeling more exhilarating.

Obviously, Mr. Blanks wasn't the average superhero. For one thing, he dressed way more chic than others did. Those unstylish tools all conformed to the ideal of wearing crotch-suffocating tights and awkward leotards. Mr. Blanks had to be stylin' when he was fighting crime, and he felt most confident doing this in a black suit. And he wasn't born with superhuman powers, but his utility belt and grossly enlarged biceps made up for this deficit.

Fog had similar ideas with his costume of a burgundy suit and identical Domino mask. Fog was technically Blanks' sidekick, (though Blanks learned the hard way no to call him that) so it made sense that they'd dress similarly.

Finally satisfied with his sedated hair and dapper costume, Blanks then skedaddled downstairs to the garage door. He groped his utility belt in search of his set of car keys, grasping them and twisting the doorknob. He was greeted by the harmonious drone of the car's engine and its smoky exhaust floating in the dim garage interior.

Though the two were well-off from their crime-fighting success, their Molemobile was nothing special. Just an sad-looking, somewhat beat up used black car with inexplicable, unnecessary blemishes across its exterior. They looked like pimples or moles or some kind of facial acne, hence the car's nickname. Fog had actually said the car resembled Blanks when they first bought it. Blanks couldn't see the resemblance, though.

Fog had already been dressed in his costume and was casually leaning against the car's hood, waiting somewhat patiently for the perpetually late Blanks. As he always did.

Blanks flashed an awkward smile as an apology and grabbed his keys to click the car doors unlocked.

Both Blanks and Fog then scuttled to climb into the car, but they bumped into each other at the passenger side door.

"Gosh, I think you forget the driver's door is on the other side," Fog chirped with an undertone of annoyance, his head tipped to the side as he looked at Blanks curiously.

"No, I know that. That's why I'm _on_ the passenger side."

"But you're driving this time."

"No, man, it's not my job to drive. You drive me around all the time for modelling jobs," Blanks griped, accidentally slipping out of his heroic character.

"Is your name Julian Plenti, right now?"

"No, but Julian doesn't drive himself around, and neither will Mr. Blanks," the hero retorted. "And why would I drive you around? You're the sideki--"

Fog's stare hardened as he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Blanks to finish his sentence.

"You know, I was kidding, right," Blanks laughed nervously, slowly backing up against the Molemobile. "We're equal, we're partners. I wouldn't even mind… wait, why are you moving your hand up? Wait, wait, no, not the hair!"

•••

Twenty minutes later, the Molemobile arrived near the gaudy, striped exterior of Melora. The store looked normal and untouched from the outside, aside from police cars parked outside and the bright caution tape. But the walls were clean and windows were intact. Hopefully, the interior didn't look so bad either.

Blanks was pouting in the driver's seat as he parallel parked in front of the store and turned the ignition off. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror and his pout deepened, the sight of his disheveled, scruffy hair driving daggers into his heroic ego. His once perfectly tranquilized, stiff hair was now sticking up in hard spikes, all thanks to his revengeful hands of Fog.

It was a true atrocity! Sure, Fog was stronger and more intimidating and just overall better than Blanks in their other lives, but he was supposed to be subordinate when they were crime-fighting heroes. Despite what Fog claimed, he was _technically_ the sidekick. And sidekicks weren't supposed to overpower their more acclaimed partners. Would Patrick have kneed SpongeBob in the balls (did he have any?) just for a snarky comment? Would Bart's trim hair spikes have been defiled by Milhouse over a harmless remark? Ugh.

Luckily, Blanks had always kept an emergency Fedora in the Molemobile for crises such as this one, and he grabbed it from its place inside a box under the driver's seat.

As he crowned himself with the sacred hat, his mood quickly lifted and his grimace disappeared.

"Well now that your hair dilemma is resolved," Fog intoned, a devious smirk on his face, "I think we should talk about the commissioner."

"What about him," Blanks responded, adjusting his Fedora in the rearview mirror.

"Well, Holy Bitch Fit, I'm sick of him griping at us for leaving the city," Fog nagged, his previous tone taking a more serious turn. "I mean, are we responsible for the crime in New York? Does he not have a police force to take care of this stuff? God, I'm just, fucking tired!"

"C'mon, Fog, calm down. You're supposed to be more chipper and camp when we're doing this stuff," Blanks said, making his final adjustment to his hat. "So what if the commissioner is an ass? This is good for us. It's just great to be other people, sometimes. This is still fun. Right?"

Blanks turned to his sideki-- partner, searching the man's expression for some sign of mirth, or at least agreement with Blanks' statement. This whole hero thing wouldn't be half as fun if both of them weren't enjoying themselves. Sure, it could get tiresome sometimes, but it wouldn't matter if they were in it together. What would Blanks be without Fog?

Fog just continued to stare out of his car window with little to no emotion on his face, causing clouds of anxiety to muddle in Blanks' stomach. A few more seconds passed, until a goofy grin gradually broke Fog's apathetic demeanor.

"Holy Golly Gee Jizz, we have a crime scene to investigate, Blanks," Fog suddenly chimed, pushing the car door open and prancing outside.

Blanks simply smirked and suppressed a laugh, slipping out of the Molemobile to meet his "chipper and camp" partner at the store doors.

They stood outside the Melora hesitantly, giving the exterior a closer look than what they'd seen from the car. It still appeared normal and untouched in its signature garishness, but they were still nervous to witness the interior crime scene. They'd had years of experience, from assaults to other vandalism and robberies, so they couldn't comprehend their apprehension in that moment. Maybe it was just nerves.

Blanks and Fog turned to each other and nodded in reassurance, as if to say "Calm down. It's only been a week." Then, together, they pushed through the front doors of the Melora, and were somewhat shocked at the state of the store.

Not that there was blood anywhere or body bags. The mirrors normally scattered around the store were all cracked and thrown on the ground. The posters of models with faces slathered in make-up were defamed with black spray paint over their hair, lips, and eyes, giving them a sinister, goth look. And of course, there was even more caution tape around the store. But those were the worst parts. The displays of merchandise actually seemed nearly untouched. Only the displays for eyeliner and foundation were ransacked and nearly empty.

"Blanks! Fog!" a shrill voice yelped from somewhere in the store.

There were only policemen scattered inside as far as Blanks and Fog could see. And they weren't surprised by the law enforcement's lax demeanors. They got pretty lazy once they knew the two heroes had returned to New York, as shown through the officers' casual chatting and lack of investigating inside the cosmetics store.

The two heroes surveyed the area near them, searching for the source of the voice until Fog pointed out a young woman ambling toward them from the other side of the store.

"Thank Moz you two are here," she sniveled, stopping  in an attempt to compose herself once she reached Blanks and Fog.

"Are you a witness," Fog asked, a look of concern splashing across his face as he looked upon the distressed woman.

"I'm a cashier, here. I opened up the store this morning and I found it like this--" she suddenly dissolved into tears, hunching over in anguish. "I was s-so afr-fraid!"

The young lady was cradling her own head in her hands, letting soft whimpers escape from her mouth. It must've been terrifying to be the first to see a crime scene, especially when you'd only escaped the crime itself by a few hours.

"Blasted!" Blanks yelled, carefully stomping his custom handmade Italian leather loafers on the tiled floor and making Fog flinch. "It really hacks me off to see such a beautiful, young lady in distress."

Blanks broke out of his heroic pose to bend down and slink an arm around the cashier's shoulders.

"Ohi'msodistressedpleasestoptouchingme," the cashier prattled, quickly slithering out of Blanks' arms and launching into Fog's. "I just need some comfort right now, y'know," she cried into Fog's arms as he awkwardly cradled her.

Blanks quickly erected himself and brushed off his suit, clearing his throat and straightening his Fedora once he stood up.

"Do you what time the crime occurred," Blanks asked the cashier, directing his stare away from her as his ego slowly rebuilt itself.

"The alarm went off at around 6 am, I think. It probably took the police forever to get here," the woman answered, somehow more composed as she continued to grip onto Fog.

"I wish we had been in the city earlier to stop this from happening," Fog croaked, passively trying to worm himself out of the cashier's hold.

"Ohmygod, that's so sweet of you," the woman purred, struggling against Fog's attempts to escape.

The imprisoned man threw a distressed glance at Blanks, silently begging him for a help. As much as Blanks wanted retaliation against his partner for that morning's hair incident and just generally being better at everything they did together, Blanks put those feelings aside. Because no matter what costumes they were wearing, what names they were using, or what jobs they were working, they were friends, nonetheless. And Blanks had yet to meet anyone else willing to put up with his shit, so…

"Fog and I should go investigate the graffiti on the walls," Blanks suggested, directing his glance to the heavily vandalized back of the store, where most of the merchandise was also missing.

Blanks began walking toward the back as he threw a smirk to Fog.

"Good idea, Blanks," Fog chirped, pushing the cashier to the floor and scampering to catch up to Blanks.

The two men were soon standing a few feet away from the vandalized wall, staring at it in an attempt to decipher its cryptic graffiti.

"Is this graffiti even English," Blanks thought aloud, tilting his head as he studied the words.

"I don't even know. Gosh, Blanks, who would write such a phrase," Fog uttered, turning towards his partner with a questioning glance.

Blanks stood still and racked his brain for some memory relating to the strange words. He had already tried to match the crime itself with a notorious city villain, but none would have ever left a crime scene like this one. Nor would they have attacked a cosmetics store of all places.

Desperate, he continued to mull over every antihero he had ever met, every evildoer and troublemaker. He'd only been fighting New York crime for six years, but he'd met enough villains to remember for a lifetime. As the names and faces streamed through his memory, Blanks looked at the seemingly indecipherable graffiti once more; suddenly, the words began to make sense to him.

He slowly reached to the floor and picked up a shard of one of the mirrors, holding it so that he could read the reflection of the words.

So they were in English. They were just painted backwards. And Blanks' memory was immediately hit by the face and name of the only man who could've done this. The only man who knew the narcissistic Blanks well enough to be sure that he'd use a mirror as a tool. The only man able to arrange such words in a way as to distress Blanks. His unnaturally large biceps began to pulsate at the memory of this enemy, a definite sign that Blanks was correct.

"The commissioner was right. I know exactly who did this," Blanks muttered, his heart rate nearly freezing at the sight of the words' reflection:

 

> STILL N.Y. ENDEMIC?- SHAMU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the bad puns and painfully obvious references :)


	3. Peanut Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Paul Banks, a man who loves big words as much as he loves big boobs.

No one was supposed to know.

It was his ultimate guilty pleasure, his greatest secret; the only coping mechanism that worked for him.

He turned to it in his greatest times of stress and trauma, when everything seemed to go wrong.

And it was fucking delicious.

 

Paul placed his arm along the sleek rim of his porcelain bathtub, the pangs of guilt and embarrassment congesting inside of him. He tried to move his other arm too, along with his other limbs, but they refused to budge.

He sighed. Why did he still do this? Every time, he'd have to use all of his strength just to pull himself out of the tub and rinse off in the sink. His body hairs would be left stiff and stuck to one another while he spent hours cleaning out the bathtub. His body would smell of an aroma that everyone would recognize as something that shouldn't be on the human body. He would spend too much money on tens and tens of jars of peanut butter at a time, only to dispose of the food after the bath. All this because some teenage asshat had made fun of his fear of peanut butter in high school; now look at what he'd become.

The unexpected return of Shamu had stressed Paul out and tortured his mind so severely that only his sporadic peanut butter bath could calm him down.

It was inexplicable as to how peanut butter relaxed him. It was so much fun to just lie still in a bathtub filled with the thick, evil substance he once loathed. He could barely move his arms and legs, but when he moved his neck down, all he could see was an expanse of peanut butter. It was kind of beautiful, like a delicious sienna-colored sea. It made him feel like a dessert; a peanut butter blondie. And desserts _were_ the best remedies for stress.

It was just that Shamu had been such a dick. Nearly all of Paul's memories of the guy were negative and filled with scarring events. He and Paul had begun on such good terms, only to end as near mortal enemies. And now he had the nerve to return? Right when the job of Mr. Blanks was at its most stressful, of course. Paul had worked so hard to rid bad vibes and malicious people from all of his lives, and the last thing he needed was for any of them to haunt him again.

Pondering these thoughts, he tipped his head back against the tiled wall of the bathroom. He'd another 52 peanut butter baths to get through this one.

•••

A few hours, many gallons of wasted peanut butter, and intense tub scrubbing later, Paul plodded into his room and collapsed face-down onto his bed. He lied there still for a few minutes, slowly recharging himself and his biceps.

Now with a little bit of energy, and ignoring the perfume of peanut butter still wafting from underneath his clothes, he lazily reached into his pants pocket for his phone.

"Would it kill you to text, sometime," a familiar annoyed voice answered.

Paul had last seen Sam as they left New York City yesterday night, both separating to go to their respective homes thousands of miles away from each other.

"Calling is simple. Texting is so complicated, with the 'swipping' and the autocorrections," Banks retorted. "And I just really wanted to hear the sound of your voice."

"Sorry, I was going through some bad reception. What was that last part you said?"

"Wha-what last part? I didn't say anything else," Banks stuttered.

"No, I heard you talk about _swyping_ and _autocorrect_ , but I missed what you said after--"

"No-no-nothing. It was nothing. Probably just the sound of me breathing or just the beautiful surrounding sounds of nature but how's your day so far? Is, uh, everything good, all good?"

A short silence followed, broken by the frustrated sigh of Sam.

"Y'know, I don't think it would hurt you to have more friends."

"I have few friends on purpose. Either they abandon me or ignore me for years only to appear again by vandalizing a store," Banks prattled. "Do you see why I don't have many friends?"

"Don't worry about that Blackfish guy. Just go out today and talk to someone. Anyone."

"His name's _Shamu_. And how am I supposed to talk to someone?"

"By walking up to them and moving your mouth, maybe?"

Paul rolled his eyes at Sam's sass and begin to think of who he could talk to. He had acquaintances here and there at the places he visited, but conversation would've been weird with them. Conversation was weird with everybody. Everybody was just weird.

"I guess I could converse with that copious-chested woman at that bakery," Banks suggested, the image of said woman appearing in his mind. He wasn't stalking her or anything (admiring was a better word), but he also didn't have a relationship with her either. All that he knew about her was that her name was Eileen and that she was very well-endowed. He had only visited the bakery a few times before to buy cupcakes he would later burn off in overly extreme exercise sessions, but also to see her. He had never muttered words to her beyond ordering cupcakes and saying thank you, but he definitely made it obvious that he was interested. Mostly with overtly secretive glances at her chest, but she probably got the message.

"Agh, what is it called," Paul muttered. "The Poof Bakery? No, wait, it had a bird in its name--"

"Cmon, Paul you know this."

"Puffin Bakery! Yeah, yeah that's it."

"Good job! Well, uh, just go there. Make friends. "

"Y'know, what? I’ll do just that. I'm departing from my house as of right now. I'll discourse with you later."

•••

Paul still lived in the New York state, just a few hours away from his Blanks home in the city. Here, though, the city was more quiet and a little meek, but emerging nonetheless.

It was such a relief to be back in his real home, not the busy L. A. or hectic NYC of his other lives. There were no obligations, no duties when Paul was just _Paul_ here. And after discovering the antics of the infamous Shamu, Paul and Sam needed breaks.

The two had spent the last two days researching Shamu's other recent crimes, but the store break-in had been the villain's latest offense in years. And the heroes were unable to Shamu's current or recent whereabouts. The investigation seemed nearly hopeless.

Nonetheless, it was still a lovely day to go searching for friends. The Thursday morning was blanketed by a summer heat, so Paul had prepared himself by wearing a low V-neck and long-sleeved sweater vest under a leather jacket, along with his darkest pair of Adidas sweatpants.

The commercial neighborhood that Paul was walking through was also pretty placid, with just a few groups of people along the sidewalks. Between the buildings of the neighborhood businesses, there were patches of grasses and flowers. Trees were even planted in small enclosures on the squares of the sidewalks. It was all so different from the cement jungle of New York and lush deserts of California. It was a nice kind of different.

At a leisurely pace, he swaggered up to the entrance of the bakery. He was first greeted by the building's garrulous sign: a puffin donning a chef's hat and holding a serving tray with the words "The Puffin Bakery." The exterior bricks were painted a powder blue and framed large display windows advertising the bakery's confections. Stickers of chubby, little birds holding plush cakes, sparkling cookies, and fluffy pies were scattered across the window panes.

Paul grabbed the door handles and entered the bakery, the chiming bells at the top of the door welcoming him inside. He immediately set his gaze toward the counter across the room, the displays of sweet confections resting inside the counter's glass catching his eye. In his peripheral view were scattered, little tables where a few customers sat, making idle conversation and enjoying the baked goods. Everything seemed pretty normal.

But what caught Paul off guard was the action behind the counter. He saw not Eileen standing there, but the back of a slender man with a mass of chocolate curly locks toppled across his head. Paul paced slowly toward the counter, trying to recall who this man was. Paul had only a faint a memory of this guy, probably from whenever he came to visit Eileen, but this was the first time he'd seen the man up close.

"Ay, pardon me, but is there a woman cashier who works here?"

The thin brunette man gracefully pirouetted around toward the counter, surprising Banks with his dark sparkling eyes and just generally adorable face.

The room suddenly seemed a get a little brighter, and the sweet chirping of birds began to play throughout the bakery. Banks glanced up the ceiling to see if birds had flew inside, but he didn't see any. He returned his gaze to the adorable man, who had begun to lope closer toward the counter.

With each movement of his birdlike legs, small forest critters suddenly skittered in from seemingly nowhere and climbed up and around the man's tall frame. Chipping squirrels and beautiful butterflies and sweet hummingbirds perched themselves along the man's shoulders and head, serenading the bakery with their harmonic songs.

What was this man? Some elegant male nymph who fell from the heavens of mythology to civilizations of Earth? A superhuman enchanted with the spirits of every adorable animal in existence? The delectable apparition that haunted everyone's erotic dreams and fantasies? Paul wasn't sure, but there was one thing he knew about this brunette man.

He was beautiful.

"Are you talking about Eileen?"

Banks was suddenly interrupted from his daze by the man's boyish voice.

"Ah, yeeeahhh," Banks drawled, his distracted gaze bouncing between the man's face and the little animals adorning his body. He had a few patches of flour on his face, but a few of his bird companions had batted the flour away with their wings.

"Eileen doesn't work on Thursdays," he explained with a seemingly permanent smile etched onto his face, as if he were laughing at a joke that no one else was in on.

"Oh, yeah, she informed me of that the last time we conversed," Paul nervously laughed, inwardly cursing himself for not knowing Eileen's work schedule. He should've known better with all the stalking--er, studying that he did of her.

Disappointed, Paul started to turn away from the counter when that same boyish voice stopped him.

"You shouldn't leave without buying one of our fresh pastries today," the man exclaimed, causing Banks to turn back around.

"Thank you, but I don't have the appetite nor desire for any--"

"But you came all the way out here, and I'm sure that worked up some appetite. These cinnamon rolls will probably do the trick, fresh out of the oven," the man piped, gesturing to a display of the flaky cakes oozing with a brown filling and immaculate swirls of white icing.

Paul really didn't want to buy any pastries, but he found it hard to say no to the adorable man. With those little critters perched across his shoulders and the stupidity of his cute face, he was irresistible. The man was so appealing and charismatic that you'd want to spend all of your money buying anything that he created.

"I'll purchase two cinnamon rolls and a vegan peanut butter muffin," Banks blurted, surprised at how easily he had changed his mind about the food. Damn, this guy was good.

"Alright, alright, alright," the man intoned, grabbing a pair of gloves and paper bag for Paul's order.

As he and his animal friends moved around carefully to pick up the pastries, Paul couldn't help but notice how birdlike the man's movements were. Not graceful like a swan or stealthy like an eagle, but quick and a little awkward. Like one of those small, gawky Arctic birds with weirdly cute faces.

"That'll be five seventy-five," the birdman chirped, placing the white paper bag on the counter.

Paul mindlessly reached into his pockets and pulled out two random bills to give to the man.

As Banks waited for the birdman to give him his change, the earlier phone call with Sam suddenly came to his mind. Paul didn't know a lot about the whole friendship thing that people did with each other, but he kind of felt some connection to this strange man. They'd practically had an entire conversation with each other, and Paul had already thought of a nickname for him. Yeah, they were obviously destined to meet and befriend each other.

"Hey, this may sound odd, but you seem like a nice guy," Paul muttered, shifting his gaze to the side to avoid eye contact with the birdman.

"I've been told that a few times, so I guess I'm pretty decent," the man replied, his stupid smile widening a little. He quickly closed the cash register and gave Banks his change. "And this might sound odd, but you smell pretty great. What fragrance are you wearing?"

Paul awkwardly shoved the money in his pocket and reached for the white paper bag, taken off guard by the man's observation. Paul was really hoping no one would notice the smell.

"It's this obscure, all natural brand. You've probably never heard of it," Banks casually chuckled, further avoiding eye contact. "But since you're an affable guy, and we seem to make swell conversation, I, uh…wanted to ask…"

Paul quickly glanced up to meet the man's inquiring eyes and curious smile, which oddly enough made Paul more anxious.

To further avoid finishing his sentence, he quickly reached into his paper bag and took a bite out of whatever pastry he grabbed, still holding eye contact with the adorable man behind the counter. The man still maintained his curious expression, though he seemed a little confused by Paul's reticence.

After chewing thoroughly for a few seconds and nodding in approval of the delicious pastry, Paul took a second, more awkward bite. Though the peanut butter and muffin bits made it difficult to talk, Banks finally managed to croak out his last sentence.

"Will you be my friend?"

 


	4. Flashback 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take a break from the present and go 10 years in the past: the beginning of Blanks and Shamu.

The early 2000's were a glorious time for the young and energetic in New York City. Everyone was slowly progressing from the depraved depths of nu-metal, with the fluorescent hair spikes and wankster mentalities. People were abandoning the trends that had plagued them for years, idling in an stylistic purgatory. They were hungry for something new: new clothes, new music, and most importantly of all, a new hero.

 

NYC needed a new idol, a new savior. One who was handsome and chic; someone whose dashing charisma could charm any citizen or city official; somebody who could scare a delinquent criminal straight.

And a young Paul Banks thought that this hero could be himself.

 

Having commuted to New York City his whole life, Banks had witnessed the countless identities that the city had encompassed. But he also knew when NYC needed something fresh.

They didn't need heroes like the twits in the movies or in the comics. No crotch-grabbing costumes or ridiculous names or imaginary powers.

No, New York deserved a hero that radiated the same energy and aesthetic of the city itself: posh and egotistical with a pimply exterior. So Banks was obviously the man for the job.

 

Unfortunately, Paul wasn't the only person trying to redefine the New York hero. As soon as he had begun planning his career, other heroes suddenly debuted as well. One such was Jules Quesoblanco, who had begun as New York's first modern hero and was the most famous. Though he wasn't the most chic and would later turn into a villain, his name quickly exploded along with his crime-fighting success.

Despite this heroic rival and with the help of his ego, Paul decided to continue on with his goals of fighting crime. He had started saving up for months from his late night restaurant job to complete his first, and most important task: buying his costume.

•••

The Inca Tern Menswear store was just a fledgling business at the time. Named after the adorably dapper and mustachioed bird, the Inca Tern store had a decent suit collection of a wide enough range to reflect New York's diverse aesthetics. Paul had only heard about the shop from the underground menswear scene that he'd been part of for years.

The Inca Tern was a little building stowed among other small businesses in a quiet neighborhood. It was a low, rectangular stucco shack identical to the businesses around it, which were all esoteric to the artsy and vogue types. 

It was an early afternoon before his work shift that Paul made his first trip to the store. A little bell chimed as he pushed in the double glass doors, the immediate sight of all the formal wear nearly giving Paul a suitgasm. 

So many suits, so little time! The store space was pretty small and unimpressive, but there were racks of swank suits and jackets neatly crammed everywhere. They were folded on shelves along the walls and hung on garment racks spread across the store. Each rack was like a little buffet of fancy suits, and they left just enough room for customers to walk around. 

Paul slowly paced from the doorway and examined the clothes surrounding him, finding himself immediately intrigued by a rack standing a few feet away. It held an array of vibrant suit jackets for nearly every color in the rainbow; it was a pimp's wet dream. 

Having nearly lunged at the rack, Paul first grabbed one that was the perfect shade of slap-a-bitch purple and held it against himself to see how it looked. The bold, almost amethyst color complemented his pale skin well, and he looked like a true boss. But then he glanced at the rack again to see another suit in a pimp-hand-strong red, and another in playa-hatin' green. Paul was so ecstatic to finally find clothes that matched his tacky aesthetic. Sure, he liked dark clothes too, but how could he resist a candy colored suit? 

Paul snagged as many of the pimp jackets as he could, hoping that his identity of a superhero would just somehow mesh with his pimp aspirations. Clothes in hand, Paul had begun to stride toward the fitting rooms when a snide snicker caught his attention, bringing him to a hault. Paul had only noticed a two people in the store when he walked in, both of them being dark-haired cashiers with their backs turned toward the counter. But he doubted the noise came from either of them. 

The store lights then suddenly began to flicker, as if some dark entity were absorbing their power. A merciless chill invaded the air, devouring all of the warmth and vitality from the store. The only explanation could have been the ascension of some infernal darklord from the depths of Medieval Europe, or the manifestation of a Bela Lugosi character. 

The change in the atmosphere first confused Paul, but once a pale figure began to emerge from his peripheral view, everything made sense. 

The figure donned a snug white button-down, black pants that fit like a second skin, and black combat boots big enough to destroy a nation. A fringe of raven, straight hair framed his face while his smug sneer greeted Paul's gaze. The man was tall and lanky but in a graceful way, his arms neatly crossed over his chest and long legs poised erect against one another. 

Based on his appearance, one would think that this strange being was Jack Skellington with body hair or a giant crow in a waiter's uniform. But Paul, much to his own misfortune, knew the figure as none other than Carlos. 

"I'm guessing you finally purchased tickets to a Little Wayne concert," Carlos scoffed, shortly directing his gaze to the rainbow of clothing on Paul's arm. 

Paul sighed in frustration, knowing well that this conversation, like every conversation with Carlos, would lead to a futile argument. He turned away from Carlos and pretended to browse, running his hand through a random rack of suits. 

"I'm really not in the mood to entertain you today, Carlos," Paul started, quickly pausing to turn back around to face the other man. "But I'll have you know that I already have a set of clothes specifically for the _Lil_ Wayne concert that I _will_ one day attend, and that said clothes perfectly appeal to Weezy's aesthetics to the point that he'll be impressed by me, want to become my best friend, and go shopping for gold chains and arm bands with me," Paul spilled, pointing a defiant finger in Carlos' direction. Paul was usually a chill dude, but he felt the need to be defensive. Weezy was always a sensitive subject for him. 

"Well please forgive me for my assumptions. I'm just not accustomed to seeing you in anything other than your Fedoras and polo shirts," Carlos retorted.  "Along with your white sneakers that never match any other part of your outfit." 

Paul rolled his blue puppy-dog eyes in response. White converse obviously went with everything. And who the hell was Carlos to give out fashion advice? The guy dressed like a Tom Ford model vampire compared to the sad, coffee shop hipster Paul. 

"Why are you even here," Paul inquired while keeping his back toward the man in question. 

"The Inca Tern is where I do most of my shopping. I love these little thrift shops fraught with vintage clothes and outdated styles. Therefore, I should be asking about _your_ intentions here." 

"I'm just expanding my fashion tastes. Looking into new career paths, too," Paul replied, shortly glancing up around the store as the lights continued to flicker in Carlos' presence. 

"Don't most jobs have a preference for… less vibrant attire? Unless you're becoming a pimp, I'm presuming." 

"Pimping as a job? That's ridiculous," Paul nervously laughed, his eyes darting side to side. 

"Of course it is. Especially due to their objectification of women, materialistic values, and gaudy fashion choices. You would never embrace any of those characteristics, would you, Paul?" 

Paul's nervous laugh erupted again, creating a little awkwardness in the atmosphere. Only Carlos could've intuitively guessed Paul's true motives with the rainbow jackets. The two weren't necessarily friends, having had a strange sort of relationship on the borderline of alliance and rivalry since they first met at a David Lynch cult meeting years before. But through their sporadic encounters in the city over the years and impromptu arguments, they had grown to know each other way too well.

 "I'd never, er, reflect any of those misogynistic pimp traits," Paul breathed, finally ending his unnecessary laughter. "I mean, I only stare at girls instead of wolf-whistling at them anymore. That pretty much makes me a feminist."

 The statement left a few seconds of silence to fill the air. Carlos then opened his mouth as if to address Paul's claim, but he quickly shut it. Explaining feminism would've been a wasted effort, especially since Carlos wasn't the poster boy for it himself.

 "Anyways. Look, Paul. I know we haven't always been the closest of friends, but I cannot remain idle and allow you to make such an ill sartorial choice," Carlos said, stalking closer to Paul and lifting the rainbow of jackets from his arm. "My commitment to fashion is more imperative than any trivial rivalry we may sporadically entertain. These garments need to be returned to the hideous rack from which they came."

 As soon as the bright jackets made contact with the skin on Carlos' arm, a sudden stream of smoke rose, and the slight smell of roasted flesh tainted the air.

 "AGH! MY ARM! IT'S BURNING," Carlos shrieked, panicking as his smooth, pasty skin continued to smoke. "MY GOTHIC SKIN CANNOT HANDLE THE BRIGHTNESS OF THESE FABRICS!"

 Carlos launched the jackets into the air with a swing of his contaminated arm, which continued to emit thin smoke upward (luckily not enough to set off the sprinklers). The clothes then landed in a defeated, colorful lump on the carpeted floor, inciting an amused Paul to quickly reorganize them  and return them to their rack while Carlos maniacally flapped his smoking arm back and forth.

 Paul straightened the sleeves of each suit jacket and dusted them off, cradling them to their respective garment rack with an amused smirk on his face the whole while. As he trekked across the store, his amusement didn't go unnoticed.

 "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Carlos snipped, glaring as Paul's smirk widened into a grin.

 "I thought only garlic and sunlight would burn your skin," Paul jeered back, amused enough to forego his pimp aspirations and saunter away from the rack. He was on the border of erupting into little man giggles. His moles were just as amused, bouncing off of his face in mirth.

 It was a little refreshing to see Carlos screw up. From his superior vocabulary, charisma with women, and fashion tastes, Carlos seemed to be better than Paul in every way possible. Paul was admittedly content to see him make a mistake.

 "Despite your assholic behavior, I'm still willing to help alter your fashion decision," Carlos muttered reluctantly, standing still with his arm finally smoke free, its beautiful, gothic skin back to normal. It was unusual for him to act so cordially to Paul, but Carlos' behavior was never truly predictable. "Like I stated before, fashion comes before our confrontations. Now, if you were to tell me what career has incited you to shop at this store, I may be able to aid your aesthetics."

 Pauls' amusement soon dissipated at the thought of admitting to his goal of becoming a superhero. How was Paul supposed to explain it? The very confession alone sounded silly and unrealistic. That kind of idea only existed in fiction, not real life. Normal people wanted to improve the city through charity work and fundraisers and social revolutions. Not dressing up in chic costumes to physically fight crime.

 Despite this, it was no surprise that Paul wanted to follow an idea that lied outside of social norms, even though the idea was slightly less creative since Jules Quesoblanco had beaten him to the punch. Hopefully, Paul wouldn't be constantly compared to Jules his entire career as a result of this.

 Still pondering over how to explain himself, Paul gulped nervously. How could he could trust Carlos to not ridicule him for aspiring to become a superhero? There would a joke about him wearing a Fedora as part of his costume, or his poor skills in wearing colors that looked well together.

 But Paul would never be completely sure, unless he just sucked it up and professed his aspirations aloud for ~~the world~~ Carlos to hear.

 "A superhero," Paul professed, curtly and to the point He had to muster up the miniscule amount of trust he had in Carlos in order to admit his true career goals. Now all that was left was Carlos' response.

 Carlos' face quickly became unreadable as he looked up to consider Paul's words, his blank facial expression leaving his potential response somewhat unpredictable. How many jokes would he make in a span of two minutes? How would his skeletal body contort as the current of vindictive amusement and laughter moved upward and out of his mouth? Would his characteristically boisterous cackle erupt through the store powerfully enough to break the sound barrier, leaving blood in everyone's ears and a blush of shame across Paul's cheeks? 

 "Well, the least you could do is purchase name brand suits instead of being a cheap shit," Carlos finally replied, his blank face suddenly cracked by a wide, villainous grin. 

"So. That's it. That's all you have to say?" A confused expression defined Paul's pubescent face as he waited for some well-timed punchline, or at least some sarcastic follow-up from Carlos. 

"That is it. I mean, Paul, you are a goddamn weirdo. I'm not surprised you chose a career path as strange as you are," Carlos replied, his grin diminishing into a casual smirk. "Now, if I'm correct in assuming your costume will be of the dapper variety, I'd recommend something in a more brooding color." 

Carlos strode to a rack closest to them, running his hands through an array of gray and black suits. "Think Batman. Rorschach. The Crow. The dark hero has always been prevalent," Carlos added. He'd always enjoyed showcasing his superior skills and knowledge in any subject, especially when it would allow him to influence someone else.

 Considering Carlos' suggestion, Paul moved next to him to glance through the darkly colored suits. The blacks and navy blues suddenly appealed to Paul, and he could already imagine all of the suit combinations that he could don. Maybe a simple, somber all black ensemble would do the trick. Or even a [three piece suit with a vest, jacket, and pants that are all different colors, accessorized with a striped tie and too-small sunglasses](http://40.media.tumblr.com/d22b1139b9da3131fa12d122ad0689a9/tumblr_nk3se5lJoh1uosfxzo1_1280.jpg). The outfit combinations were undoubtedly endless.

 "I never thought I'd ever say this, but I think you're right, Carlos."

•••

Paul took his receipt and newly bought suits from one of the dark-haired cashiers, who seemingly disappeared during the pair's earlier antics and conveniently came back in time for them to buy clothes. Carlos then moved up to register, handing a gray wool three-piece suit to the cashier as Paul stepped to the side.

"I can see you're expanding your fashion tastes, too," Paul commented, noting how little the suit reflected any gothic European chicness.

"What can I say," Carlos replied, grabbing the wrapped suit from the cashier and moving alongside Paul. "I am a man of many faces."


	5. Cream Puff(in)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul makes a new friend, or so he thinks.

It had been a while since Daniel Kessler had been out on a date, but would going to dinner with a stranger out of sympathy count? Daniel really hoped not.

 DK had always been a super nice guy, so naturally, when a sad little cinnamon roll named Paul walks into his place of work and asks to be his friend, Kessler can't say no.

By the time Paul had started a conversation with Daniel at the bakery, he'd still had a few hours left before his shift would end. So out of pity and being creeped out by this Paul guy, Kessler had promised to go to a friendly dinner with him following his shift.

In response, Paul had just lingered around the bakery for the next few hours, buying a bunch of peanut butter muffins before running out to the gym over and over again. His biceps seemed to had gotten bigger every time he came back.

By the end of his shift, Daniel had decided to run home to change out of his work clothes before meeting Paul that evening.

Not long after, Daniel was stepping into the doorway of the restaurant, turning around to shoo away his little critter and bird friends. The restaurant did have a strict no-pet policy.

He then strode into the waiting area and confirmed his reservation with the maître d', who led him to an empty table set for two. Daniel nested himself in a plush chair and stared optimistically at the empty chair across from him. Paul still had five minutes to arrive before their agreed upon meeting time. But as the minutes turned to ten and then fifteen, Daniel soon grew hungrier and tired of shooing the pestering waiter away with the excuse of  "My other guest is on the way". His optimistic stare had become a dull gaze after reading over the menu for the fortieth time, when Paul had finally been led in by the sympathetic-looking maître d'.

"You weren't waiting long were you," Paul inquired as he casually plopped down in his chair, his plaid-patterned jogging suit making a swishing sound as he made himself comfortable.

Daniel felt the urge to politely go off on this guy, maybe suggesting to him that he make reminders on his phone so that he wouldn't be late anymore and to refer him to a menswear store so he could wear more formal clothes to restaurants, or to go pescetarian. But as Daniel put down him menu to sassily reply to Paul, he was immediately met by a pair of anxious, turquoise, puppy dog eyes. Daniel's anger slowly dissipated as his perfectly healthy, vitamin-pumped heart melted at the sight of those sad irises. There was no way DK could stay mad at this guy.

"No, you were fine. I actually got here right before you did," Daniel nonchalantly laughed, amused more at the idea of himself being late or actually making a mistake because he was too beautiful to do anything like that. Tardiness and mistakes were for the plebeians.

"That's great, then. Gah, where's the waiter at? It's so insolent to keep people waiting like this," Paul exclaimed, his floppy hair whooshing as he turned his head in search of a waiter.

Daniel simply widened his smile as his right eye slightly twitched, and he was internally grateful once their waiter soon appeared, placing two complimentary glasses of water on the table.

"Good evening, gentlemen. So nice to have you _both_ here," the waiter said while throwing a short, judgemental glance at Paul, who was busy studying the menu. "Are you ready to place your orders?"

"Yes, I'd like the underwater medley with herring and mollusks prepared _very_ rare," Daniel smirked, winking knowingly at the waiter.

"Why of course. And for you, sir," the waiter squeaked, biting back a snicker as he took a closer look at Paul and his choice of attire.

"I'll have the chicken tacos," an oblivious Paul replied, closing his menu.

"And what sauce would you like with those? We have peanut butter, spiced mayonnaise, chipot--"

"The spiced mayonnaise," Paul rasped quickly, anxiously handing his menu to the waiter.

"Well, ah, I'll put in your orders and they shall be out soon," the waiter politely replied, a confused look flashing across his face as he walked away with their menus.

A few seconds of silence then hovered over the table as Daniel tried to read Paul, who seemed to be in deep thought while staring at a stack of napkins.

"You okay there," Daniel asked, his voice half intoned with worry and half with curiosity. It was strange for someone to react that way to just ordering food.

"Oh, uh, I'm completely copacetic. All fine," Paul replied, visibly shaking himself from his pensive trance. "I'm just really finicky about food, sometimes."

"I'm guessing you're not a peanut butter fan," Daniel said with a smirk. "Which would be weird, since you ate so many peanut butter muffins earlier."

Paul's eyes widened a little as a worry began to flourish in him. Was Daniel on to him?

"I have a totally healthy relationship with peanut butter. Sometime I hate it, other times I don't." Smooth cover, Banks.

"Sheeeitttttt, that's crazy, man. I could never hate peanut butter."

At the sound of Daniel's exclamation, Paul quickly looked up from the table, a disturbing memory having formulated in his mind. The image was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday, and it had reminded Paul of the one dope awkward and dorky enough to pronounce shit the way that Daniel just did.

"Wait. You're _that_ Daniel," Paul asked, his voice rising along with his incredulity. "The Daniel who taunted me in high school about peanut butter?"

Daniel's comely face contorted into an expression of confusion. "No, you must've mistaken me for someone else."

"No, it was you! Don't you remember all the pranks you inflicted upon me? Sticking _Jif_ labels all over my locker? Stuffing my backpack with Reese's cups?"

The hilarious pranks suddenly began to sound familiar to Daniel. Of course, he remembered buying all those _Jif_ jars and making weekly trips to the convenience store for the candy. Those were good times.

 "Ohhhh, I remember! You're _that_ Paul. Man it's been ages. I wouldn't have even recognized you if--"

"Do you know what you turned me into? What I've become," Paul demanded. The nutty aroma of his peanut butter baths suddenly appeared so strongly in his mind that he could smell it, causing tears to well in his eyes. "I spend so long scrubbing my bathtub! Every time I do it, I know that it'll tarnish the tub, but I keep doing it! Why? Why did you do this to me?!"

"Wait, what did I do to your bathtub--"

"You did everything to it," an enraged Paul yelped, launching from his seat and slamming his hands onto the table. The other customers had begun to stare curiously at the two men, but this didn't deter Paul from his fury.

"I'm sorry.  I never meant any harm in high school.  I'm a genuinely nice guy."

"Y'know, that's what I assumed earlier today," Paul replied, biting down on his lips with a look of disappointment. "But now that I know who you really are, I think you're kind of an asshole."

Daniel froze, an incredulous expression hardening over his face. No one had ever said anything mean about Daniel. Ever. Everyone liked him, everybody thought he was a sweet, sociable dude. Someone actually insulting DK was an occurrence as rare as seeing the Aurora Borealis. At that moment, it was if the earth had paused in its rotation, and the sun's brightness dimmed a little. Mother Nature looked down angrily at Paul for insulting her son.

"I'm not an asshole. I can't be one, I'm too nice." Daniel shook his head in denial to Paul's claims.

"You ruined high school for me. You are in no way an amiable person for that."

"I am the world's nicest person. I have freaking birds and forest critters following me around!"

"That doesn't mean you're nice! It just makes you adorable!"

"Y'know, you're wrong about me being an asshole," Daniel retorted, launching up from his chair. "I am a beautiful cinnamon roll, too good, too pure for this world!"

"No you're not! You're just a bully," Paul scoffed, glaring at Daniel and his scrawny frame in order to think of a better insult. "A _birdman_."

A look of offense immediately spread across Daniel's face, his hazel eyes widening and his little mouth forming a perfect _o_ shape. Even his ~~beak~~ nose tweaked a little in annoyance. "I did not come here to be insulted," Daniel snapped, pushing his chair backwards. "I just felt bad for you, and I was trying to be nice. And I wanted food! But you just attack me like this. No wonder you have no friends." Daniel gave Paul one last glare before turning and stalking toward the restaurant's exit, leaving a trail of dark feathers behind him.

A solemn Paul stood still in the same place, basking in the heavy silence that had encompassed the restaurant once their argument had begun. He could feel the stares of the other customers gluing directly to his figure, but he continued to pay them no mind. He could only ponder the truth in Daniel's words and Sam's insistence of him making more friends, and moreover to the idea that he was less sociable than he thought.

Paul was suddenly jolted from his thoughts by the appearance of the waiter, balancing the two men's food on a single tray. The waiter placed the plates on the table before directing a snide glance toward Paul. "Please enjoy your chicken tacos, completely peanut-butter free," he piped with a grin.

Paul looked nervously down at the food on the table, mostly unsure of what to do with Daniel's plate. He would've eaten both meals out of spite, but Paul didn't have a thing for the raw-looking, sea creatures on Daniel's plate. It looked more like the diet of some arctic creature than that of a human being. "Could I just get two carry-outs?"

"Of course. Now, will this be on one check or two?"

•••

Ten minutes and a several dollar bills later, Paul emerged from the restaurant. He carried the two carry-outs in the crook of his arm, and was still a little flustered from the scene he had just made. Letting out a frustrated breath, he stood still in an attempt to enjoy the humming, neighborhood silence for a few seconds, when a familiar voice interrupted him.

"Thanks for calling me adorable."

Paul immediately turned his head in search of voice's owner, unable to discern any face with only dim streetlights around him. Once he looked to his left, he found Daniel sitting on a bench a few yards away, grinning remorsefully.

"I mean, I didn't intend on complimenting you or anything, I was just making an observation," Paul muttered, shrugging awkwardly. He then began to tread toward the bench and handed Daniel his carry-out.

"I should at least pay you back," Daniel reasoned, grabbing the carry-out container with one hand and digging through his pockets with the other.

"Don't fret about it. It's no problem," Paul replied. Modeling and superheroing paid pretty well, so money was never a big deal for him. The frequent flights back and forth weren't cheap, but Paul never worried about it. "What are you still doing out here, anyway?"

"I felt bad. Cute people like me usually don't get that angry or into such heated arguments," Daniel explained, casually rising from the bench to stand next to Paul. "I just wanted to apologize."

Paul couldn't help but sigh in response, knowing well that he owed Daniel an apology too.

"It's alright," he replied, pulling a loose cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket. "I shouldn't have gotten so irate over high school and a condiment, or food, or whatever the hell peanut butter is classified as."

Daniel nodded in agreement, glancing at Paul as the cherry of his cigarette began to glow.

"I really never meant any harm in high school, though. I was just a prophet trying to spread the holy message of peanut butter. But I swear, I've grown from that."

Paul flashed a small, awkward grin to show his forgiveness, and he dug out another cigarette as an offer to Daniel.

"Oh, no thanks. One puff of nicotine and I might not be able to finish my daily 5 mile run," Daniel reasoned, causing another amused grin to form on Paul's face.

Silence fell between them again, but it was more compliant than awkward. The faint night sounds of far-off motorcycles and car horns filled the air between them, and everything seemed less tense.

Soon, a strong gust of chilly wind began to blow around them, causing a look of alarm to flash across Daniel's face. He suddenly began to sway back and forth, as if he couldn't stay steady.

"Look, Paul, I'm sincerely sorry for all of the awful things I did to you," Daniel said quickly, his feet beginning to lift off the ground. "I just hope we can still be cool after all of thissssss."

And right as he finished that sentence, Daniel was immediately whisked into the air by the wind, his thin body floating gracefully away until it became no more than a speck in the distance.

Paul then took a puff from his cigarette and reached into his pants pocket for his phone. As he started his short trek back to his apartment, he dialed his most important phone number. Sam's voice did eventually answer, but it was his voicemail, surprisingly.

Guessing that Sam just turned in early, Paul stowed his phone away and focused on his cigarette. The scent of nicotine and chill air would be his only companions on that lonely walk that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write! And expect the plot to become way more ridiculous.


	6. Friendship is Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a special hat, an ass-kicking, and an unexpected tragedy.

It had been just a couple days later when Paul boarded a plane in New York and landed in California as Julian Plenti.

The model had arrived in the early afternoon and taken a taxi to his hotel, since he never stayed long in California but for modelling work.

Fatigued from the slight jet lag and series of unanswered calls to Sam, Julian had fallen asleep once he reached his hotel room. It wouldn't be until several hours later when he would awaken to sound of the alarm set on his phone.

Though his fatigue hadn't fully left him, Julian still forced himself off the bed and to get dressed. There was no way he could miss the event tonight.

After nearly dragging his tired body through the bathroom doorway, Plenti first brushed his teeth, leaving his mouth with the flavor of his Pinky Fruity toothpaste. He then rinsed with mouthwash and observed himself in the mirror to adjust his beautiful mane of hair. 

Plenti left the bathroom and searched for his suitcase on the floor, rummaging through until he grabbed pieces of his ideal outfit for that night: black T-shirt, gray pants, and a pair of dark New Balance sneakers. Deeper in his suitcase, he lifted up a box holding the most essential component of his outfit: **the Fedora**.

And this Fedora was unlike the others he held dear in his Blanks apartment in New York. The hat was a special, rare edition, and was ideally made for where Julian would be going to later.

His dark outfit adorning his model body and special hat in tow, Julian left his hotel room for the loud California streets. His destination was only a few minutes-walk from the hotel.

As he sashayed along the sidewalk, he could only hope the surrounding women could resist the urge to pounce on him. Could they all resist the magnetic allure of Julian Plenti? As the night breeze sent strands of his hair flying behind him, could they smell the aroma of his Axe shampoo from days before? From his peripheral view, he could see girls fanning themselves to keep from fainting at his very presence. They definitely weren't trying to fan away the odor of his body spray. Definitely not.

Suddenly, it was there before him. Across the street, a once plain, inconspicuous video game store was made significant that night. Not just because of its pink and blue strobe lights vacillating through the night's dark air or the seemingly endless line of people in front.

It was the magic emanating from the cardboard, pastel-colored equines propped up in the store window. Their elated faces and vibrant, one-dimensional manes caused a stir in Julian's chest that he had never experienced before. Was it love?

It was most likely just excitement for the release of the new My Little Pony PC game. The last one had come out in the 90s, and words could not describe Julian's excitement in finding out that a newer game would finally follow.

Yeah, the playboy model was a total brony; Paul and Blanks hadn't even acknowledged the existence of the MLP franchise. But living as Julian was the model's opportunity to be an absolute creep all-around. He lurched at women, drooled over athletic wear, and most important of all, he believed in the flying power of Rainbow Dash.

As he started to cross the street, Julian gently crowned himself with his special Fedora: periwinkle with a pair of wings the same color and a rainbow sash.

Parading down to the end of the line, Plenti bestowed nearly everyone he passed with the glory of his gaze. He tipped his Fedora at fellow bronies while avoiding the judgemental stares of little girls.

After what seemed like an endless trek, Julian finally found the end of the line. He slid into place and began the eternal wait for what would be his most prized possession.

Only a few minutes had passed before a loud voice from a few feet ahead interrupted Julian's daydream about frolicking in Equestria.

"You've got some goddamn nerve!"

Julian peeked from under his hat to see a chick with a little girl at her side, the child seemingly delighted with her new PC game. Swallowing his envy, Julian returned a confused glance toward the demanding broad.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?"

The dame bit her lip and intensified her glare at the playboy. "No surprise someone like _you_ wouldn't recognize me. I bet all girls just look alike to you."

In an attempt to recognize her, Julian began to survey her from head to toe. He didn't remember her hair or eye color but once his eyes rested on her chest, it all came back to him. Of course, Plenti could never forget a great rack when he saw one. The chick was one of the hotties from his beach photo shoot the week before.

"Oh, yeah! You had on the blue bikini top," Julian exclaimed, still a little confused as to why the chick was so mad. He stared blankly at her for a few seconds, the reason still not coming to mind.

"That's right, the blue top. And also the one you were supposed to meet for drinks with last Thursday."

 Julian's beautiful, lost face contorted into an expression of awkward remorse, as the memory of asking her out last week slowly came back to him: his flawless French accent, that ingenious Stella Artois pun, the way the girls were hypnotized under the Plenti spell.

"Riiight. Something came up that day, y'know, I had to take a flight out of the state," Julian reasoned. He had gone on a plethora of dates as Julian Plenti, but last week had been the first time his life as Blanks had interfered with this. Julian was a beautiful slab of fuckboy rolled up in flannel, but he wasn't one to purposely skip out on dates.

The woman continued to glare at Julian, as if she were angrily considering his excuse and the validity of it. After a few seconds, however, her face was slowly relaxed by a widening smirk as her anger seemingly dissipated. "I totally understand that you had more important things to do. I guess I just overreacted."

As a wave of relief washed over Julian's sculpted body, the woman bent down to the child next to her, who seemed completely enthralled with unwrapping her My Little Pony game. The woman whispered something into the girl's ear, and the child's demeanor suddenly changed.

"He said _that_ about Twilight Sparkle?!" The little girl directed her focus from her new game to glare up at Julian.

The model could only glance between the woman and her child with a confused expression once before he felt a sudden, sharp pain in his right knee.

"Agh!" Plenti began to bounce on his untouched leg while flailing his arms to grab something to support himself on. Then a similar pang struck him in the abdomen, and he was soon slumped over in agony on the hard, cement sidewalk. A series of pitiful groans fell from his pretty mouth as he looked up to search for his assailant. And he was immediately met with a smug expression of the younger broad.

"My mom told me what you said about Twilight Sparkle, you creepy pervert. I swear, you bronies ruin everything," the little chick yelped, still glaring at Julian with the same patronizing expression as her mother.

The model only looked between the beach chick and her daughter with disbelief, a dulling pain still reverberating throughout his body as he continued to slump on the ground. "So maybe I deserved that," he breathed out in one quick gasp of pain. "And I never said that about Twilight Sparkle. I'm a high class brony, not the gross kind."

The chick and her kid stared down haughtily at the groveling model and his pitiful explanation for his pony love.

"Have a nice life, Plenti," the once-blue bikini top snarked, shaking her head as she began to turn around to walk away. Her daughter smirked mischievously at Julian and almost started to follow behind her mother, when the mini she-devil stealthily snatched the brightly-colored Fedora from atop the model's mane.

Quickly forgetting his body's pain, Julian launched from his knees and toward his precious hat. Suddenly, he found himself embroiled in a Fedora-tug-of-war with a kid less than half his height.

"Just give me the hat, loser," the kid yelled, tugging backwards with all her childlike might.

"No way, you don't know how many weird photoshoots I had to do just to afford this Fedora!"

The tugging match went on for what seemed like full minutes. The line in front of the store had even started to become a loose crowd of spectators surrounding the two. A few people had begun to shout at the model for getting into a struggle with a child a quarter of his age, but once they saw that the fight was over MLP merch, the entire crowd fell silent in understanding.

Fuck, this kid was stronger than Julian had expected. And right when it seemed like Plenti had the upper-hand and the Fedora was about to slip from the little chick's hands, sudden, bright flashes assaulted the model's vision. He quickly fell backwards onto his toned butt and held his arms up to shield himself from the blinding lights. They faded away after a few seconds, and Julian let his arms fall to reveal that the kid had disappeared with his adored Fedora.

Paul's signature puppy-dog eyes quickly defined Julian's expression as he stared off into dark, night distance, wondering about the welfare of his precious hat. A single flash then erupted amidst the dark, capturing  this contemplative moment of Julian's in a photograph to later cover the front pages of tabloids the following day.

• • •

As the golden sun rose the following morning and awakened him, Julian was suddenly reminded of the main reason why he flew back to California: not to gather along with his fellow bronies, and especially not to have his ass handed to him by someone half his height.

After taking a lazy glance at his alarm clock through the wisps of his saffron-colored hair, the model practically rolled off the bed and stepped to the hotel bathroom. Following a quick shower, intense hair brushing, and another sad dose of Pinky Fruity toothpaste, Plenti threw on something resembling flannel, dark shorts, and sneakers that matched no other part of the outfit.

Then he checked out and began the walk to the hotel parking lot. Once he spotted his car, Julian slumped in and started the ignition, a weird feeling encompassing the entire vehicle since Sam wasn't there with him.

Pushing the loneliness that was uncharacteristic of Julian to the back of his mind, the model beginning the drive to the photoshoot scheduled with a new client. It wasn't Adidas or Nike or GQ, but Julian wasn't one to say no.

The whole car ride, the model was buried deep in thought. He just wasn't used to feeling such loneliness when he lived as Julian. When he was Blanks, he always had Sam by his side, and Paul was always a sad, lonely, little muffin. But not Julian. Julian always had girls or Sam or strange people he'd acquaint during his nightlife as a model. But over the past few weeks, his luck with girls was as nonexistent as it was for Paul, and his social life was as dead as that of the always busy Blanks. Modelling jobs were coming in few to none. He could practically feel Julian Plenti coming to an end.

But just as the career potential of Julian Plenti began to fade away in the model's mind, the very symbol of his modeling career suddenly appeared in the car's passenger window: a Nike store. The sight of the store caused Julian to quickly swerve right into its parking lot, amidst the melody of honking car horns behind him. But the model wasn't in a rush to do his biweekly douchebag garment shopping that day.

What had caught Plenti's attention was the absence of the store's sign and faded imprint of where the sign's letters once were. As he slammed into a parking spot and hurriedly put the car in park, Julian sprinted out of the car and up to the store doors.

No. It couldn't be so.

No light came from inside the building, and as Julian cupped his hands over the door to peer inside, he noticed that all the merchandise was nowhere to be seen. The store was empty. Closed.

And Julian Plenti's heart was broken.

Where would he buy all of his athletic wear that he wore while not actually exercising? Wouldn't his shirts look weird without the brand name symbols and uncreative slogans? How would people know that he was dedicated enough to physical fitness without his totally necessary sweatbands?

Defeat and despair overwhelming him, Julian limply dropped his arms to his sides and slowly turned back toward the parking lot; the sight of the empty ~~generic athletic wear~~ Nike store was killing him. As he glumly glanced around the empty and now defunct lot, Julian suddenly noticed a sign placed far down on the building's exterior wall. The model soon found himself walking mindlessly toward the sign, hoping that it would give a better explanation for his commercialistic tragedy. And sure enough, it did.

In bold, red letters, the white sign read, "New Location of Whiskers and Tweezers: Barbershop for Cats and Dogs."

The words immediately struck a chord in the model's memory, and he knew who was responsible for this atrocity.

Julian Plenti then quickly jumped back into his car, making sure he got a few good hair flips in, and changed his destination to the airport. 

Forget the photoshoot, and the potential groupies and paycheck that could have come along with it. Julian Plenti had discovered a conspiracy. And Agent Blanks was out to solve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took forever for this chapter to come, but it was worth the wait, am I riiiiiight?


End file.
